


Muscle Memory

by hullosweetpea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Men of Letters Bunker, Mother-Son Relationship, Pie, Pregnant Mary, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hullosweetpea/pseuds/hullosweetpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somethings stay with you from the moment you learn it; Dean wouldn't forgot one of the most important lessons his mom ever taught him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Another FF.net to AO3 post. I have a soft spot for young Dean and pregnant Mary; add pie and it's just too cute.

Muscle Memory

  
  
"Mommy?"

  
    Mary Winchester shut the door to the fridge and looked down at her young son and smiled. "What is it Dean?"

  
   The toddler smiled. "Whatcha makin'?"

  
   Mary smiled and sat the butter holder down on the counter. "Pie."

  
   "Can I help," he asked quietly, a bashful smile on his face."

  
   "I don't know..." teased Mary.

  
   "I pwomise I won't touch nothin' you don't want me to and I pwomise I'll listen to you," pleaded Dean.  
    Mary grinned and opened a cupboard. "Alright, go grab your apron."

  
   Dean scampered across the kitchen to where a small apron hung on a hook next to a doorway with three lines on it marking his height since he had turned two. He pulled the apron on, which had a large cartoon car on it, and ran back to his mother so she could tie it in the back. "What kinda pie are we makin'?"

  
     "Pumpkin," replied Mary as she pulled two cans out.

  
    Dean frowned. "But it's not Thanksgiving."

  
    She chuckled at her son's confused look. "I know that sweetie, but I guess Sammy wants some."

  
    His confused look intensified. "But Sammy's still in your belly. How can he eat pie?"

  
   Mary leaned down carefully so she was closer to eye level with her son. "It's an expression. Mommies who have babies in their bellies sometimes want certain food, so they say that the baby wants it."

  
    "Oh," Dean replied and his confused look disappeared.

  
    Mary stood back up carefully, hand resting against her back. "Go get the footstool and you can help me." Dean picked up a footstool that was resting in a corner of the kitchen and carried it over before setting it down next to where Mary stood. He climbed up on it and now could reach the counter; his head barely reaching her shoulder. "Now, what do we do first when we're working in the kitchen," asked Mary.

  
    "Wash our hands," replied Dean.

  
    "Right, don't forget to scrub under your nails," added Mary, she turned towards the oven and turned it on.  
    Dean got off the footstool so he could scoot it in front of the sink. He reached forward and turned the hot water on and squirted soap onto his small palms. He made sure to scrub them extra good before washing the soap away under the water. He turned it off and grabbed the towel hanging close by to wipe the water off. He moved the footstool again and saw that his mother had organized all the ingredients.

  
    She opened a container and stuck a one cup measuring cup into it before pulling it full with flour. She grabbed a knife and leveled it with the flat side over the container. "Are you ready?"

  
   "Yup," Dean exclaimed. He grabbed the handle on the measuring cup and with a bit of guidance from Mary poured it in a green bowl. They repeated the process twice: once again with the one cup and then again with the half a cup.

  
    Mary looked over at Dean and smiled. "You've got some flour right here," she said poking his nose.

  
    The four year old laughed and swatted his mother's finger away playfully. "That tickles."

  
    "Oh," Mary said raising an eyebrow, "what about this?" She wiggled her fingers under his chin and he squealed with laughter.

  
    "Mommy," he said between giggles, "what about the pie?"

  
    Mary stopped, grabbed a teaspoon and dipped it into the sugar container, the spoon coming out a bit heaping full with the small crystals. She eyeballed it and looked at her son. "We won't tell anyone it's not exactly a teaspoon, will we," she asked in a low conspiracy tone.

  
   Dean shook his head gleefully. "Nope!" He took the spoon and poured it on top of the flour while Mary took the butter knife and cubed the butter stick. She scooped the cubes up and added them to the mixture. She opened a drawer rifled through it, and pulled out a pastry blender. Dean looked at the odd object in his mother's hand. "What's that?"

  
    "It's a pastry blender." She put it into the mixture and placed Dean's hand on top of the blender before placing her hand on top of his. She moved it around slowly. "See, it breaks up the butter and mixes it in with the flour and sugar."

  
    "How long does it have to mix," asked Dean has he fixated on attacking cubes of butter.

  
    Mary moved the blender around a few more times. "I think this is good." She picked up the tablespoon and put multiple water filled increments in. "There, now it's the fun part."

  
    "Why?"

  
    She took off her wedding ring and sat it on a safe place on the counter. "Now we get to use our hands!" She put her hands in the dough and gently scooped the dry into the wet; Dean helped as best as a four year old could, but he flung some flour out and had dough covering both hands. He tried to scrape some of it off, but whenever he did the dough would just move to his other fingers. Mary chuckled under her breath and helped Dean get the dough off his fingers. "Go wash up while I roll the dough out."

  
    Dean scooted the footstool again and repeated his hand washing ritual from the beginning. By the time he had gotten all the dough out from under his nails Mary had moved the ingredients, rolled out the dough, and placed it inside a pie pan. "Here, you can help with this part too, but if you do you'll have to wash your hands again."

  
     "Okay, what do I do?"

  
    Mary grabbed his hands and put them at the edge of the crust. "We have to make the edges pretty." She took his two index fingers and put them on either side of a small bit of dough and pinched them together. She moved his hands down and repeated it again. "Can you do this around the whole thing while I make the filling?"

  
    "Uh-huh," replied Dean and he eagerly continued to crimp the edges of the pie. He went slowly, trying to make his clumsy fingers keep the spacing even and not pinching too hard. He made his way around the edge and could start to smell the spices that went in the pie as his mother opened each of the containers they were kept in. He made his way back to the beginning and smiled at his work.

  
    "How are you doing sweetie," asked Mary.

  
    "I finished," he proclaimed.

  
    Mary walked over and looked at Dean's work. It was uneven in spots and she could see some of his small little fingerprints, but for a four year old there was some serious skill shown. "You did a great job, Dean. Let me pop it in the oven for a bit and then we'll had the filling." She picked up the pie pan and walked over to the oven. "And what's the rule about the oven?"

  
    "Don't stand by it when Mommy's openin' it," recited Dean.

  
    She opened it up, placed it inside, shut the door, before ruffling his hair. "That's right. You can watch it if you want while I finish the filling."

  
    "I wanna," he said and grabbed the footstool before placing it in front of the oven. He watched the crust as his mother finished the filling and it wasn't long before Mary had him move so she could add the pumpkiny goodness.

  
    She closed the door again and set a timer. "There, when that goes off we'll rotate the pie. Then we'll set it again and the second time it goes off we can eat it."

  
    "Mommy, can you untie my apron," asked Dean as he turned his back to her and pointing at the knot.

  
    "Sweetie, did you get it knotted up again?"

  
    He bit his lip. "Yeah..." Mary leaned down and tugged at the strings. "Hey Mommy?"

  
    "What?"

  
    "Why do your pies taste so yummy?"

  
    She kissed the back of his neck. "Because I make them with love."

  
    He giggled. "No, what really makes it tasty?"

  
    She pulled at the strings and the knot came loose. "It's all in the crust. If your crust isn't flaky, the pie won't be nearly as good."

  
    Dean turned around and hugged his mother. "Thank you."

  
   "For what?"

  
   "For teachin' me," he said with a smile.  
  
   Mary kissed his forehead and stood up. "Well, we'll have to wait a bit before we see how well you did."

  
                        

* * *

 

  
Dean had the ingredients lined up on the counter ready for him. The only problem was that he couldn't exactly remember the recipe. With a sigh, he pulled out the stack of measuring cups, the teaspoons, and tablespoons and sat them on the counter. His hand hovered over the one cup and he picked it up, gently tossing it in his hand. As if on autopilot he put it in the flour and he began the dough. His mind may have forgotten, but his hands hadn't. He measured out flour, sugar, cubed butter and blended together. He poured water in and mixed it with his fingers, taking his ring off first of course, and kept the flour inside the bowl. He sprinkled flour on the counter and dumped the dough on to it, some flour flying up in the air. He smoothed flour on to a rolling pin and rolled it into a circle; not to thick, not to thin. He lifted it up and into the pan before he began to pinch the edges like he once had. He popped it into the oven and a smile crept on to his face.

  
                      

* * *

 

 

  
Dean brought the still slightly warm slice of pie and sat it in front of Sam. He looked up from his research. "Did you make that?"

  
   "Yeah. That kitchen is freakin' awesome," remarked Dean as he sat down with his slice, which was only a bit bigger than Sam's.

  
   Sam picked up his fork and took a tentative bite of pie. He chewed and swallowed before looking at Dean. "Damn, this is good."

  
    Dean pointed at the edge of his pie. "That would be the crust. If your crust sucks, your pie sucks."

  
    Sam took a bigger bite and grinned. "And you remembered I like pumpkin."

  
    "You don't have to wait until the holidays," replied Dean.

  
    "Seriously though," Sam continued eating his slice, "where did you learn to cook _and_ bake?"

  
    Dean just shrugged his shoulders. "I've picked up on some stuff over the years. It's all just muscle memory now."

  
   "Well whoever taught you how to make pie knew what they were doing," said Sam as he polished off his slice.

  
   Dean smiled and looked down at his slice. "She most certainly did."


End file.
